


Bruised

by inkpink



Series: Lopsided Hearts [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Dadly Depot, Gay Chicken, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, ghostbusters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-23 01:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8308255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkpink/pseuds/inkpink
Summary: Red and blue make painful purple.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession: I've never actually seen Ghostbusters

You’re going to get your heart broken.

You’ve known that since the day you first saw him, hair tousled, eyes wide, laughing into his fist like a chump.

Your heart aches for him.

You flirt so obviously it should be illegal, but all it does is make him giggle. He’s fairly oblivious by nature, so of course it makes sense that he has no idea how much every little thing he does wrecks you.

Even when you don’t want to think about John, when you’re so goddamn sick of seeing the split of his smile, his glasses, his fucking _fingers,_ there he is, like a tapeworm behind your eyes.

Eyes. _His eyes._ Fuck, shit, _no,_ this is not what you should be thinking about.

Of course John doesn’t know. Of course he has no that you’ve picked up the habit of using his concert videos to fall asleep, the ones on his dad’s otherwise-bare Youtube channel, the graphics shitty but the music gorgeous. Your favorites are his original compositions, the ones where his fingers wash across the keys like raindrops and you feel like he’s talking to you.

You are devoted to John, and you didn’t ever mean to be. You aren’t sure when your world blurred from beats to blue eyes, at what point your thoughts shifted to make room for the enigmatic black hole that is John Egbert.

You’re nursing an invisible bruise - one that John can’t see, can’t baby. Your heart is a sorry, greenish shade of yellowing purple, and every time you talk to him he squeezes his fingers tighter around it. It’s the reason you’ve been strifing slower lately. It’s the reason Bro has been screaming at you more than usual.

At least said shitty guardian is out with his latest boytoy, some idiot named Jake who’s too naive to know he’ll be dumped on his ass roughly a week from now. Bro’s a solitary creature, but he always manages to find boys willing to abide him, if only until he gets bored with them.

You dump your things in a sprawl across your bedroom floor and flop face-first into your pillow.

You don't enjoy what you feel for John anymore. It’s so consuming, so obsessive, it twists your friendship into a fist in your gut and at this point, you’re lucky it hasn’t splattered across your sheets.

Speaking of which.

Said sheets still need to be washed from the last time John slept over. You should have washed them ages ago, to be honest. Especially because, as Bro often reminds you, you have nothing better to do.

You’ll give yourself one more day. Grace period.

Instead, you take a deep sniff. Your pillowcase doesn't smell like John anymore. You’re not sure if it ever did, to be honest, or if you were just so desperate to believe that he’d left something behind that you imagined his soft, light scent.

Your pillowcase smells like the off-brand shampoo Bro buys at the dollar store. It smells like it stayed in the washer too long, which it did. In summary, it smells disappointingly like you. John smells like the vanilla extract his dad slips into every cake, and fresh laundry. You most certainly would have noticed if something that wholesome lingered around here.

Your phone buzzes. You’re prepped to ignore it, so as to continue your rad as fuck pity party, when you see a familiar chumhandle and a flash of blue text.

Your heart twitches in your chest.

\--ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG]--

EB: dave   
EB: daaaaaaaave   
EB: daveeeeeeee   
EB: dave?   
TG: sup egdork   
EB: oh, hey!   
EB: I was wondering if you wanted to go to the movies later?   
EB: I was going to invite the whole crew, but jade bailed and rose is at kanaya’s.   
TG: yeah sure   
TG: gotta clear out my busy schedule though   
EB: what could you possibly have to do?   
TG: tend the burn wounds of all those innocent bystanders that listened to my mixtape   
TG: make geromys scribbly ass hapen   
TG: evade my entourage   
EB: oh, thank god.   
EB: I was worried that I would never be able to see my best friend again, due to him being buried in “the bitches.”   
TG: bitches what bitches   
TG: dont you think that vocabulary is a little misogynistic young man   
EB: I was trying to make fun of you!   
TG: sit your ass down and stop making feminism even more of a priority in todays world   
TG: christ   
TG: but thanks for your concern   
EB: yeah, no problem.   
EB: and I am not misogynistic!   
EB: girls are cool.   
TG: yeah yeah whatever   
TG: whatre we seeing   
EB: what?   
TG: the movies   
TG: you invited me to the movies   
EB: oh, right.   
EB: the new ghostbusters!   
TG: oh hell no   
TG: usually the only downside to dreams with you in them is that I have to wash my sheets afterwards   
TG: but if you’re talking about fucking ghostbusters   
TG: this must be a nightmare   
EB: first of all, there is no downside to dreams with me in them.   
EB: they are all really hot and you should feel privileged.   
TG: oh I do   
TG: trust me egbert   
EB: good.   
EB: second of all, it’s a remake!   
EB: If anything, it’ll be better than the original!   
TG: thats not much of a stretch   
TG: getting my dick eaten by jades giant spooky dog would be better than the original   
EB: ew.   
TG: point stands   
TG: that movie is shit   
EB: you haven't even seen it yet!   
EB: what are you, psychic?   
TG: do I look like lalonde to you   
EB: a little bit?   
EB: i think you guys could be siblings.   
TG: fuck nevermind okay   
TG: remakes are always shittier its the way the world works   
TG: dont be a sheep john   
EB: what’s wrong with sheep?   
EB: they are wooly and have good hearts.   
TG: yknow what this is ridiculous   
TG: the hypothetical sheep no longer matter   
TG: nor did they ever   
EB: hehe.   
TG: what time is the movie   
EB: 5:45   
EB: and dad says you can sleep over after, if you want.   


A chance to escape Bro _and_ be with John? Hell fucking yes. Subjecting your eyes to the cinematic equivalent of bleach that is Ghostbusters is a small price to pay.

TG: yeah thats chill   
EB: your entourage won't miss you?   
TG: I think I can shake em off for a night   
TG: as long as you dont spread it around   
EB: my lips are sealed.   
TG: hot   
EB: I know.   


You've finished shoving shit into a bag and are scrawling a note to Bro on a paper towel when John pesters you again.

\--ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG]--

EB: I meant to ask, do you need a ride?   
TG: nah I can skate over   
TG: its cool   
EB: my dad is convinced you’re going to be hit by a car.   
TG: I expected no less from dadbert   
EB: I’ll see you in 15.   
TG: gotcha   


\--turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB]--

The words you leave for Bro are decidedly vague -

going to johns be back tomorrow

\- but you’re sure he’ll be satisfied with them. It’s not like the guy goes out of his way to include you in his life. You’re like roommates. Sort of.

Roommates who hate each other and live in constant fear, with a power imbalance that makes Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson vs Queen Elizabeth II look reasonable. Also you’re ninjas. Sort of.  
There’s always the chance of him getting pissed, but at least he can't make you pay for it in front of Dadbert.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't understand the Kim Basinger ref, look up The Mermaid Chair, an actual piece of cinema that people put time, money, and effort into

The Egberts arrive in under twelve minutes, the approach of their huge cream-colored minivan heralded by a yell from one of the angry 20-somethings who live next door. You hike your backpack up higher on one shoulder and stumble down the stairs before they can start tossing beer cans at the windshield like last time.

The spotless Egbertmobile is idling on the curb like an old friend. You feel a swell of relief at the sight of it.

John jumps out to get the door for you like an overgrown bellhop. Even though you know he’s merely being a gentleman, a thrill runs up your spine like you’re Kim Basinger and he’s a Benedictine monk with nothing but time.

“Dave! It’s good to see you,” Dadbert calls from behind the wheel, tipping his hat in greeting. On anyone who wasn’t a 40-year old reincarnation of Frank Sinatra, it would look try-hard, but his aura of sunshine and Barbasol makes the whole thing work.

“Same to you.”

The front seat is crowded with yesterday's mail and a charcoal umbrella. Smooth jazz drifts from the dash. The vehicle smells faintly of cake batter thanks to the Yankee Candle air freshener swinging from the rearview mirror. You try not to sigh too audibly as you sink into the plush, pleather backseat alongside John. 

  
John can drive, but Dadbert sure does love to ferry him around. You don't mind his quiet, amiable presence. In fact, he’s a welcome distraction from another distraction. John’s scent, John’s breathing, John’s knee bumping against yours when the van pulls into the movie theater parking lot some five minutes later. There are a lot of shitty things about your apartment, but its proximity to downtown is not one of them. Especially when you’re about five seconds away from losing your shit with the way John keeps  _ touching _ you.

Dadbert releases the two of you on the curb, but not before handing John a twenty and giving him a stern lecture on the importance of not spoiling either of your appetites.

“I have a beautiful dinner prepared, not to mention that I’m sure you’ll want to save room for dessert.”

“Yes,  _ Dad, _ ” John groans, and then you are  _ free. _ You have a glorious 1 hour and 56 minutes to stare off into space, eat popcorn, and enjoy the feeling of John's shoulder just-barely brushing your own.

You are hit with a wave of freezing air conditioning and the tantalizing aroma of popcorn butter as soon as you step into theater lobby. You and John are regulars here, considering he’s an indiscriminate slut for any and all forms of cinema. You’re surprised you don’t have frequent flier miles or some shit by now. At the very least, you’re pretty sure the slushie guy knows your names.

The two of you approach the ticket booth, steps cushioned by the kind of questionable carpeting that’s featured in all movie theaters ever. John’s eyes are already lit up.

There’s a guy you’ve never seen before tending the ticket counter. You deduce from his pissed expression and the way that it morphs to downright infuriated at the sight of your approach that he’s new.

“What’ll it be?” he grumbles. His black hair and sullen attitude make him look kind of like a stunted Rottweiler.

“Two for  Ghostbusters , please,” John replies, so excited you can practically see his tail thumping.

The greasy guy at the front counter scoffs, raking a hand through his rat’s nest of black hair as he does so.

“Sorry kid, that one’s all sold out,” he spits. John's face falls quicker than Jennifer Lawrence at the 2013 Oscars. “Gotta order tickets in advance if you even want a chance at seeing it. Guess it’s all the rage nowadays. Why the fuck is beyond me.”

“Huh,” John answers, voice seeming to deflate as the ticket officer continues. “Yeah. Thanks for your help anyways.”

You have to hand it to him - what a perfect boy next door. You cast a side-eye through the lenses of your shades so he’ll know that you know how completely unironic all of this is. What you’re met with is marginally harder to deal with than his fuckin’ magic eyes.

John’s bottom lip juts in what must be a subconscious pout. It's soft and gorgeous and suddenly all you can think about is the way that it would feel against yours. Your breath catches incriminatingly. 

“Don't look so upset, the trailer looked shitty anyway,” the ticket guy confides in a scratchy growl, apparently oblivious to your current plight. You’re caught in an emotional dilemma between acting the sane person and agreeing with Ticket Man, or choosing to defend the movie and play the role of good friend. You compromise by giving John’s elbow a comforting nudge, and shooting the ticket guy a terse nod of approval once John looks away. 

“Man, I  _ really  _ wanted to see that,” John mumbles. “Melissa McCarthy is a phenomenal actress.”

John probably considers Bill Nye a ‘phenomenal actress,’ but you keep that thought to yourself. He deserves a little while to sulk in silence. Also, you need some time to pull yourself back together after being the length of Ant-Man’s dick away from kissing him out of the blue like that.  _ In a public place. _

**Goddamn** is Bro right about your lack of self control.

“At least your dad hasn't left yet,” you offer once you’re halfway across the parking lot. John nods, but his eyes look faraway.

“What are we going to do for the rest of the day?” he muses.

Your pulse flips in your wrist, because it’s not the day that’s been replaying in your mind like the chorus of Hollaback Girl.

Dadbert is crazy surprised when you pile back into the car, which is kind of a good look for him. You don't know if you trust him so much due to how closely he resembles John, or if it’s because he’s so fucking fatherly. Rose says it’s a result of your lack of a legitimate paternal figure throughout childhood. To put that more concisely, she blames daddy issues.

“I'll take you two back to the house, then. Dave, you are still fully welcome to sleep over, unless you’d rather we drop you off back at your home.”

“No,” you blurt, then smooth it over with a hurried “I’d much rather stay, if you don't mind.”

“Of course not. I'm happy to have you.”

“Hey, we should watch the original  Ghostbusters when we get home,”John says, brightening.

You sigh deeply. This kid is a fucking toddler.

“ Ghostbusters is a terrible movie,” you reply.

“Is not!” John shoots back.

You bicker like that until Drake comes on the radio and you’re forced to roast him instead.

You get halfway to the Egbert abode before Dadbert slaps the steering wheel and mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “Cream and sugar!”

“Something wrong, Dad?” John ventures.

“I’m terribly sorry to leave you boys alone, but will you two be okay if I step out for a quick jaunt to the Dadly Depot? I’d forgotten that I’ve committed to the monthly Dapper Dandies meeting.” 

Dadbert looks insanely apologetic about having to leave, an activity that Bro usually wouldn't take the time to inform you of. You and John nod in unison. It’s not like you need parental supervision to watch Bill Murray make a fool of himself.

“I shouldn't be gone for more than three hours,” he promises. “There’s plenty of food in the fridge if you get hungry. John, be sure to get Dave a piece of that cake I made last night.”

John makes a ‘bluh’ face and lets his head drop onto your shoulder. You remain impassive. He is a squealing teenage girl, and you are the stoic tsundere protagonist of Bro’s most ironic anime. It’s you.

You both send Dadbert off with a wave as he drops you off at the Egbert home and begins to back out of the driveway. The minute the front door slams behind John, however, he dissolves into giggles.

“Dadly Depot my ass,” he snickers. “If he’s going to be gone three hours, I bet he’s meeting up with Rose’s mom.”

You both make overzealous gagging noises.

You situate yourselves in the den. John tosses you the remote as he fiddles with the disk. You getting volume control is an unspoken rule.

You spend the movie on the very edge of his shoulder, your breaths shallow. When you shift, they ghost the side of his neck. You think you’re probably allergic to being allowed this much affection, because you can't stop shaking. His body is so warm and his head is leaning gently against your own, and every time you sneak glances at him in the half light of the screen your heart swells painfully. 

You fall into a sort of haze there on his shoulder, not quite asleep but not quite all there either. The place where you get to touch John is a different plane of reality.

“Dave?”

“Wha?” you ask blearily, wiggling your head slightly to try and gauge whether or not you've drooled on him. Nah, you think you’re good.

“Are you falling asleep?” The edge of a smile curls his words.

“No way, man. The terrible score of this movie could keep even a weary father of four tossing and turning,” you bluster.

He snorts.

You’re so lost in him that you almost don't realize when the movie ends. You’re content to continue dozing on the faded leather couch for the rest of eternity. John, tricky bastard that he is, has other plans.

Also you’re a piss-poor liar and you totally did fall asleep on him, which means that you wake up alone.

You push your Aviators up to rub at your eyes. Time to play Where’s Egbert.

“John?” you call, crimson Converse clomping on hardwood as you ascend the stairs that lead from the living room up to the rest of the house.

“In here!” drifts a voice down the hall. 

Probably in his bedroom. You can't imagine why he would be in there, unless he decided to throw on fresh pajama pants before popping in the sequel. Understandable, because the guy pretty much creams himself at the mere mention of 80’s special effects. 

You poke your head in to check.

He’s sitting crisscross on his bed, glasses resting on the nightstand. You approach warily. His eyes snare yours.

“Sit.”

You don't sit.

“John, what do you-”

“Shh,” he whispers, hand reaching out to tug lightly at your sleeve. “I want to try something.”

His fingers ghost your ears. You hold impossibly still. A spark of panic runs through you when you realize he’s removing your shades, even though it’s dark enough in here that the strangeness of your eyes should be practically erased. 

“Is this okay?” he breathes.

You think you nod, but you’re wound so tight that it’s probable you just kind of seize.

John kisses you. You haven't had many kisses, but from the way John keeps knocking his teeth against your own, you can tell that he has likely had next to none, aside from maybe the kind of saccharine forehead bullshit that comes from living with a parent as awesome as Dadbert for 15 years.

When John pulls back to catch his breath, his blue eyes are blown wide. Fuck, you don't deserve this, can't even handle it.

“Uh, John?” you stumble.

Oh, smooth. 

He presses his index finger to your lips.

“Shh.”

_ Ohmygodyou’reinlovewithhim. _

You feel like you’re under a spotlight as his blue eyes sweep your face, catalog the spray of freckles usually hidden by your overlarge shades. When he finally makes his way back to your eyes, you have a stronger urge to bolt than Sonic the Hedgehog. 

Fuck you for bringing Sonic into this. Leave it to you to ruin everything good that’s ever handed to you.

Luckily, John soon provides a distraction from your unholy inner monologue. Granted, what he says doesn't make it anymore holy, but at least it’s enough to banish Sonic to the deepest depths of hell where he belongs.

“You have pretty eyes.”

On reflex, you reply 

“That’s gay.”

John rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah, that’s definitely the gayest thing I've done all night. You have caught me, Dave. That comment alone has turned me into a card-carrying, certified homosexual. What will my dad say?”

“No way, dude, it takes way more than that to earn a card. You don't even know.”

“Oh?”

His hand is still resting on your knee. It burns you through your jeans.

“Yeah,” you breathe, because your faces are so close now that speaking at normal volume would be like blasting a foghorn in his ear. “It’s hard as shit.”

“Think you can show me?”

This is ridiculous. Why are you talking to John when you could be kissing him. Why are your hands shaking. Why is it suddenly so hard to breathe.

  
You suppose the kiss that follows is the best answer you’ll get.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, child abuse tag comes into play

You stay at the Egbert’s until 6:00 the next night, at which point Dadbert politely kicks you out on the grounds that your Bro must surely be missing you by now.

He isn't. You’re pretty sure that Bro is incapable of human emotions such as loneliness, remorse, and whatever tells people to buy food instead of tossing away rent on felt whenever Jo Ann’s has a two-for-one sale. 

You’re whistling. That's the first thing that puts you on Bro’s radar. It’s tuneless and completely unironic, the kind of thing a useless anime mom would sing just before being killed for the sake of her kid’s tragic backstory. The second thing is that you’re wearing your tight jeans, the ones that give you the ass of Shakira. The third is that you’re grinning.

Three strikes. Interrogation time. 

“Dave,” he greets, cool and casual, leaning on the kitchen counter with a Bud Lite in his hand. The all-American look is slightly skewed by the katana hanging from his belt.

“Sup,” comes your carefully constructed reply. You may be in better clothes and spirits than usual, but you’re not lovesick enough to ditch your shades. At least some of your emotions are safely locked away. His own pointy Dorito shades are situated comfortably on the bridge of his nose.  You’ve both got your armor. Perfect for a fight.

“Sit,” he commands.

You make your fourth mistake.

“Where?” 

It’s a cheeky question, delivered in complete deadpan. Bro sees right through your bullshit.

“Sit,” he repeats, like you’re brain dead. To pick a fight with Bro, you kind of are. You plunk your ass on the linoleum. You’re not faster than him, not even flashstepping, which is a trick that he taught you anyways. Pulling out his own loopholes on him is an amateur move. 

Bro takes a long sip of his beer. You refuse to be prodded into anxiety. If you were braver, if you were stronger, if you were even more of a fucking moron than you already are, you would stand and tell him to get on with it already.

You wait. First smart thing you’ve done tonight. 

“You can't be screwing around with James’s son.”

Your heart pops off like a bottle rocket in your chest.  _ How could he-  What would- _

He gestures at your clavicle with the neck of his bottle. Oh, fuck.  **_John._ **

You’d completely forgotten that he marked you up. The high neckline of the shirt you borrowed from him to sleep in had completely covered the faint constellation of hickies left on your collarbones. You even got by Dadbert today, thanks to some strategic hoodie positioning. Unfortunately, Bro is much more perceptive. Without the concealer he keeps in the bathroom, the smears of bruising ruby are like black holes on the pale expanse of your skin. You grapple for an advantage. 

“Why not?”

“He’s respectable,” Bro replies, pairing it with a scan up and down your body that clearly translates to  _ and you’re not. _

“The hell does that mean?” you bluster, sounding braver than you feel.

He snarls out this laugh that claws up your spine, all teeth and no humor.

“It means he doesn't fuckin’ wanna kiss boys, Dave. Thought I raised you better than that.”

“Yeah, well-” The words tumble out of you like broken teeth. You shut up immediately, forcibly clamping your mouth closed. You can't tell beneath the both of your shades, but you think his auburn eyes flit to yours.

“‘Well’ what, little bro?” he asks, voice veering dangerously. His bottle is still resting in a light grip. His posture is nonchalant. His face is perfectly expressionless. The light overhead flickers. 

“Nothing.” 

You duck a heartbeat before he pounces. You manage to sweep his feet out from under him. He hits the ground like a cat, pinning you and wrenching you upwards by the neck of your shirt in what seems like one fluid movement. The leather of his gloves chafes against your skin. His fingers clutch tight enough to bruise.

He’s mad too, cracks a punch across your face the first chance he gets. Either falling on his ass majorly wounded his pride or he’s recently gotten tired of his booty call. He’s always worse when he ditches a hookup for good. 

Your eyes well up beneath your shades from the force of the blow. The eyepieces cut painfully into you. You hope to hell and back they’re not cracked. 

“Did you kiss him, Dave?” Bro asks, voice still level. He’s barely winded.

Fuck him. Fuck his uncrackable aura and fuck his seamless movements and fuck the way nothing slips through his fingers. Fuck you for being so pitifully easy to read. The shithead’s right - he  _ has  _ raised you better. You know better than to assume you know what makes him tick. He’s a die with more sides than Bob Ross has redeeming qualities. It’s downright sacrilegious to fool yourself into thinking that one of these days you’ll know what to expect when you sneak in through the window. It’s almost as if he’s so caught up in his own machinations he can’t decide where he wants you himself. 

You fight to jerk your jaw away. The action only makes his grip tighten.

“Dave. Answer. Me.” His sentence is stilted into three. You stare past his shoulder at a spot of fuck-knows-what on the kitchen’s tile wall. Soft and submissive, but still willing to put up enough of a fight to keep him entertained. That’s what Bro’s looking for tonight. 

He punches you so hard your vision winks out momentarily, but you’re somehow still on your feet when it returns, albeit wobbly. He must’ve held on tight enough to keep you upright.

“Did you kiss Egbert’s son?” Bro snarls, and you can feel tears stinging at the place where his class ring has sliced the skin of your cheek. Burning along with the venom in his voice are the words that you own mind dredges up to pin to John.  _ Perfect  _ John Egbert,  _ kind  _ John Egbert,  _ gorgeous fantastic excellent  _ John Egbert. He doesn’t want you and he never will except magically  _ he does. _

“No,” you choke. “He kissed me.”

  
Three strikes. You’re out like a light.


	4. Chapter 4

You’re lucky to wake up the next morning.

“Wake up” is generous wording for it, because it’s more of a gradual rise to the surface, slowly becoming aware of how fucking badly your body aches. 

You’re feet away from where Bro left you, curled into a crescent on the dirty living room floor. Your shades jab uncomfortably into the side of your nose. Forgot to take them off you guess, what with being pummeled unconscious and all. Rookie mistake.

The blinds are drawn, as usual, so you’re practically blind with them on. Nothing complements a feeling of impending ambush like coexisting in perpetual darkness with a samurai. He likes to con you into thinking he loves the dark by choice, but you’ve seen him blinking like an eighth grade boy seeing a boob for the first time whenever he’s forced to step into broad daylight shadeless. The dick’s just as photosensitive as you are. 

To add to your funhouse of dizzying sensory deprivation, you can’t smell anything either. Wonder what Bro screwed up this time. Hopefully nothing too visible - facial injuries are always the hardest to keep covered up. 

Hey, at least you can’t smell the shitty beige carpeting you’ve passed out on. Usually it reeks of corn chips and spilled Fanta, a little blood if you catch the right spot. Not that you make a habit of getting well-acquainted with this janky as fuck floor, but in a house where a midnight piss constitutes a strife to the death, you’ve gotten pretty familiar with its subpar bouquet. Any chance to skip out on the stank aroma is win in your book. 

You thank whatever higher power’s earned a front row seat to the Dave Gets His Dick Shoved Up His Own Ass show and begin to take stock of what doesn't hurt. A twist of both wrists reveals that neither is broken, though there’s a mural of fingerprint-shaped bruises trailing up your noodle arms. Your chest doesn't hurt when you breath, but you tentatively trail fingers up your ribs just in case. You hope to Lalonde’s Lovecraftian hell and back that Bro’s not taping you feeling yourself up on one of his puppetcams. That shit’s not cool.

Whether or not you’re being stalked by Bro’s muppet hoes, your upper body seems pretty okay. A little sore from spending the night on the floor, but nothing you haven’t done before. No pain, no bruises. Guess he didn’t literally kick you while you were down. You struggle to sit up.

Your work is impeded by the appearance of a blinding pain as you notice the puddle of blood fanning out from your head to the dingy carpet fibers. Your nose is glued to the mess.

With a nauseating crackling sound and a shower of maroon flakes, you wrench yourself upwards.  _ Fuck does that sting,  _ **_shit._ ** Your face feels like it imploded.

Tentatively, you reach a hand up to it. You fumble at your septum, probing further once you feel a stab of tenderness. 

Your fingers bump the bridge of your nose and you nearly bite through your lip to keep from screaming.

If he left you down with a broken nose, his Bastard-o-meter has seriously risen beyond mortal means of comprehension. Must’ve really been a rough break-up this time around. Otherwise, he would have at least kept you conscious for long enough for the blood to clot, to make sure you didn’t run the risk of choking on that shit if it drained down your throat. It’s a careless mistake on his part. If you die, what’ll he tell the neighbors?

You flex your toes, remembering the time you woke up with three broken from the heel of Bro’s cowboy boots. You were more disgusted by the cause of the break than the actual pain. At least, that’s what you told him when he found you hurling into the bathroom sink, toes sloppily taped together. 

Your feet seem fine this time around, and when you grab the edge of the futon and pull yourself upwards, there’s no obvious sign of injury. You can bear your weight just fine. Good thing too - the last time you had to wear a limp to school, John worried like he was getting payed a dollar an anxious glance. Kid’s oblivious though, so he probably wrote it off as undecipherable brother dynamics. 

The apartment is eerily quiet as you slink to your room. You make it there undisturbed, but you can’t shake the usual paranoid itch that being in your own house brings on. Something’s amiss. 

You fight not to let your nervousness cross your face as you scrabble in your sock drawer for the bottle of Advil you keep stashed in the back. You’re all prepped to pop two blue pills before steeling yourself for the walk to the bathroom, but you can’t seem to get ahold of the bottle. 

In frustration, you tug the whole drawer out.

Instead of your trusty friend ibuprofen, it’s filled with tiny cardboard boxes. Aspirin. Boxes and boxes of chewable, cherry-flavored baby aspirin. Oh, thanks Bro. If you take all of these, you might be able to get a solid night’s sleep, or cure that toe you stubbed in third grade. 

Fucking aspirin. This guy gets worse every day. 

You leave the baby aspirin as a path of last resort and head into the bathroom. The mirror over the sink, still fogged from one of Bro’s legendary showers, confirms what you’ve been doubting.

Two black eyes. Jaw stippled with darkening bruises. A crooked, swollen mess where your nose should be, the line of it off kilter. The cut on your cheek has already scabbed over.

A broken nose. Could you have been that lucky?

If that’s all you get for kissing John, you might as well tell Bro to get a few good punches in now, because minor bodily injury is not going to stop you.

Okay. It might, for a little while. Your nose hurts pretty fucking badly, and you’re wracking your brain trying to remember how many baby aspirin equal out to one adult dose. Four? You think it’s four. You’ll take five for luck, why not. 

Deep in the pocket of yesterday’s jeans, you feel your phone buzz.

\--ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG]--

EB: you okay?

  
John has no idea what he’s asking.


End file.
